
Class _.?5 



_i S ^i ^H^ -^f "V 



Book n"7 eCFI^ 
GopyrightN'___ii^5_ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSnv 



5II|? Stttb^a nf MU 



* BY 

EDITH LYNWOOD WINN 



CIT. 



J908 
CARL FISCHER 

PUBLISHER 






|l!PR>\'?y of congress 

1 '••vo Z'yxv:- f!«:!i!ved 

i DEC 18 1908 

CLASS Ol XXc, ^io, 

2tssS7 



Copyright, 1908, 

BY 

CARL FISCHER 



Stanbopc ipcess 

F. H. GILSON COMPANY 
BOSTON. U.S.A. 









To the Memory 

of 



€ontent$ 



it 

Page 

I. The Idealist 9 

n. The Song Cycle 17 

III. The Song of Ravana . • • • • 23 

IV. The Perfected Bow 39 

V. The Crucible of Art 43 

VI. To My Valentine 53 

Vn. Astrid 63 

VIII. The Cry of the Ungifted . . . .75 

IX. The Old 'Cellist's Prayer .... 81 

X. Soul Technic . 89 

XI. Auf Wiedersehen ..... 99 



V^ uHuallg t0 b^ fnunJn tin 

i)^ faU0 bg tl|^ magatiii^, too 
mmk to bn mcr^ tljan pmnt 
0«t t!f0 mag^ Anln ^nmt l^nti 
morBlfTpp^r paaa^s bg nnh 
markn tlj^ Bpnt lust aa tu^ mark 
tif^ Btara at mgljt, aa m^ &r^am 
anb rltmb. 



CDe Idealist 




|£ loved Art in Nature and Nature in 
Art. His symbols were drawn from 
wood and field and fen, from every 
winged creature and from the deep 
recesses of the sea. His heart was 
in tune with every note of suffering 
in the great throbbing metropolis, 
yet "be looked toward the hills, with their wide 
stretches of green and red and gold that filled his 
summers with delight and fed his spirit until it be- 
came surcharged with exquisite harmonies. Some- 
times he nourished these children of his fancy for 
•months, not daring to trust them to another, or to 
reproduce them in tone, but a loving companion, 
hearing their first expression, in her zeal and perfect 
understanding, led him to clothe them in new har- 
monies, and send them on their mission into the 
great world of Art. 

There were days when, in his desire for more per- 
fect forms of expression, he almost lost courage and, 
though surrounded by things beautiful, his hand re- 
fused to work, so weary was his soul with the striv- 
ing after an ideal; again his companion cheered 
and comforted him, believing in the ultimate tri- 
umph of his genius. There were other days when he 
sat silent at his work among the trees that he loved 
— sat buried in deep thought beside the instrument 
which was the expression of his thoughts and ideals. 

[9] 



]Etu&es of %itc 



At length, when this mood had spent itself, hearing 
sweet voices in the evening's stillness, or viewing 
from afar a loved form in a garden of old-fashioned 
flowers, he awoke to newness of Ufe, girded himself 
with the armor of faith, and long into the night he 
worked, glorying in the wealth of his creative in- 
stinct and the nobility of his themes. 

It was with him as with all geniuses, the best 
came to him after a period of despair and, for the 
rest, mere love of praise or a passing desire for afflu- 
ence never warped his soul or marred his manhood, 
though he had vagrant moods. 

When well-earned appreciation came to him from 
other lands, he bowed his head and thanked God 
that at last they were beginning to love and honor 
his work, and he hastened again among the trees, 
for there in the soft stillness, with the crooning of 
the pines and the sweet notes of birds about him, 
his soul was filled with ecstasy. A wild rose, a water 
lily, a bit of heather, seemed to speak to him of 
God and His handiwork. He did not pray as many 
other men pray. He simply wrote down impres- 
sions, and these bore their own stamp of spirituality. 

But these treasure days of summer could not last, 
though Love would fain have shielded him from the 
rough world and created for him an ideal atmos- 
phere where he could work and sing with a happy 
heart. There came urgent calls from the great Hall 
of Fame, and seekers after Knowledge wrote to him 
from near and far, begging him to touch their art- 
life at some vital point. He yielded, and though his 
ministry was marked by lofty ideals and generous 
service, the soul within him was often crushed to 
earth, so hard was it to keep others abreast of his 

[lo] 



UM 1I^ealtst 



creed. At last, when he had made one fearful 
plunge into the vortex of Ambition, for the sake of 
this creed, the light which had sustained him failed; 
the rock upon which he stood crumbled as if struck 
by the iron heel of Commercialism, bearing its ma- 
terial essence like a millstone about its neck — a 
tragedy for which he was in no way responsible, 
since Idealism is incompatible with all that bears the 
stamp of mere commodity. 

His friends came to see him and beheld him a 
child, prattling in his joy. The soul, — that gallant 
soul that had withstood the shocks of years of ser- 
vice for Art, and sailed fearlessly into the open sea 
of Idealism, had gone — gone they knew not 
whither. When they took him by the hand and 
wished him God-speed, they trembled, and great 
marks of agony were upon their faces, for they 
loved him deeply. Had they always shielded him, 
encouraged him, helped him over the hard places of 
Life? They asked themselves this question as, with 
bared heads, they went out joyless into the joyous 
day. 

Months passed. The world awoke to the tragedy 
of the disintegration of the Idealist's genius, pitied 
his loved companion, who alone kept the embers 
warm within the citadel of his mind, but God, the 
God of Love and Art and Life itself, stood near and 
sheltered him, even made him as a little child, giv- 
ing him the long-lost joys and memories of youth, 
transporting him again to that wondrous realm of 
fancy in which, long ago, he had so lovingly lived 
and moved. In his face dwelt purity, serenity, 
gentleness and innocence. Then they clothed him 
in pure white that the vision of childhood might be 

[II] 



]£tu^cs of Xife 



complete. One by one the last fleeting signs of 
mentality went out, but he was not left in dark- 
ness. A hand, warm, tender, strong; a voice, gen- 
tle, loving and sweet, soothed him, comforted his 
waiting days, and linked him with the great Beyond 
into which his spirit had entered long before his 
mortal body sank to rest. 

In the meantime, the world was carrying his 
tragedy close to its great heart, — that art-world in 
which he had been so long a prominent figure; 
and other Idealists sprang to the front, striving to 
carry on his work and perpetuate his lofty ideals. 
It seemed as if a mighty wave of sympathy was 
wafted to him from all over the earth. His com- 
panion heard it and it made the path easier for her; 
he, however, played on and on in his childish glee, 
revelling in a bar of sunshine on the carpet, even as 
he had once revelled in the working out of some 
theme of a beautiful symphony. 



One day in midwinter, when the snow lay white 
and soft on the door stones of his simimer retreat, 
he sank to rest quietly, peacefully and sweetly. The 
city traffic and bustle was all about him, but he had 
journeyed to his long Home by the way of his little 
nook in the trees, where his last days of perfect 
peace and open mentality had been spent. Loving 
hands prepared him for burial, and many were the 
tokens of respect and generous sympathy which 
came to his loved companion from all parts of his 
native land. She smiled upon the still face in which 
there was now no sign of life, for she had become so 

[12] 



Ube ir^ealist 



accustomed to soothing, protecting, and bearing 
good news to him, that for a moment she felt that 
she must convey in her smile all these last tokens of 
fealty, friendship and love from his dear Art-world. 
His face, still, immobile, calm, reflected her smile, 
when, after a long journey, they reached his sum- 
mer retreat and bore him to a loved spot near which 
he had once worked so joyously. 

There were no flowers in the garden, no song 
birds in the trees, no murmur of bees among the 
sweet scented clover. The day was cold, bitterly 
cold, and the leafless trees cast sepulchral shadows 
on the snowy coimterpane *neath which he must rest. 
They had made a flowered nest for him, and there 
was sunshine in the hearts of his followers, though 
they wept, for each one had pledged to his name im- 
failing loyality for the years to come, and devotion to 
his ideals. 

Life to his companion now meant double service. 
Heaven had become tangible to her — a link for- 
ever with that God to whom the immutable changes 
of centuries are but as yesterdays, and whose love is 
as tender as universal Motherhood. Through a rift 
in the clouds He seemed to cast one swift benedic- 
tion on the scene, then a dull gray pallor settled 
slowly upon the Earth. The snowy counterpane 
grew deeper until it entirely covered the flowers that 
crowned the burial place. 

Again the IdeaUst was clad in white, as in child- 
hood. 

it 

Life throbbed and pulsed in its old way in the 
city in which he had lived and worked. Men spoke 

[13] 



]£tu^es of %\tc 



his name tenderly and lovingly. Great orchestras 
sought to carry out the spirit of his works in many a 
Hall of Fame, and plain, careworn men pored over 
what he had created, and prayed that one day they 
might take up the thread of his art-life. 

One would fain have sat apart for a time — his 
companion — but she felt that his ideals must be 
carried out, and again she took up her task lovingly 
and fearlessly. 

Time passed and there came to her the story of the 
death of a great Slav, another Idealist. She asked if 
he, too, had suffered in the attaining of his art- 
ideals. When they told her his tragedy, she said, 
" The Idealist*s monimient is usually foimd on some 
hilltop where, exhausted, he falls by the wayside, 
too weak to do more than point out the way. And 
some hero worshipper passes by and marks the spot 
just as we mark the stars at night, as we dream and 
climb." 



[14] 



®Ij^ ^0ng-OIgrl^ 



Cbe Song-Cycle 




"^U^J^^HERE was once a man who had an 
inordinate thirst for Knowledge from 
the days of his boyhood ; his teachers, 
seeing his zeal, overfed him and 
sapped all the warm red corpuscles of 
his physical life to thrust him into the 
arena before he had reached his 
prime. And he did win in the race, for when, pale 
and worn, he stood before the greatest artist of our 
time and played the last movement of that great man*s 
Concerto with surprising technical dexterity and 
brilliancy, the master was filled with wonder. 

But there was something about this seeker after 
Knowledge which seemed to hold him back — to 
estrange him from his fellows, as it were, and yet 
neither he nor they knew the cause. Feverish and 
impatient, he worked from day to day, hearing 
neither the glad voices of children in the streets nor 
the importunities of the aged and helpless as they 
asked alms at his door. 

One day, after his fame as a virtuoso had been 
fully established, and when, restless for wider re- 
nown, his thirst for Knowledge was almost satiated, 
he bethought himself of a Song-Cycle which he had 
once written and set aside, that he might make some 
portion of it more beautiful in the years to come. 
And so he sent it to a pubHsher and waited for a 
favorable answer, believing in his own heart that the 

[17] 



JBtuDes ot Xife 



public would welcome it as a beautiful work. But 
the publisher was a man of unusual discernment, as 
well as of deep knowledge of life, and he felt that 
beautiful as the Song-Cycle appeared, it had no soul. 
He was a large-hearted man, however, and even at 
the risk of giving offense to the composer, he wrote 
to him and begged him to rewrite the work, saying, 
" The beauty of a song lies not in its text nor its 
music alone. There is a subtle something behind 
it all, a motif pure and sweet, that binds man to man 
and fills the great gaps in Ufe made by sin and suf- 
fering. It is this human element that is lacking in 
your Song-Cycle. May it not be that great as has been 
your training, and profound as is your knowledge, 
you have not touched souls with the Universe? All 
knowledge has but one object, and that is to raise man 
and the works of man above the commonplace, and to 
infuse new life into humanity. To feel the needs of 
the Universe you must not shrink from the touch of 
the fishmonger. He has built his habitation, stored 
it with food, clothed his wife and children. He loves 
LIFE; you love KNOWLEDGE. Who shall say that 
he is not as worthy a citizen as you? Yet most men 
say that Art maketh the world richer because it is 
attached to a star. Give to your Song-Cycle some 
new and vital impulse. Have you not heard the cry 
of a little motherless child? Or have you not seen 
the renunciation of Art for one perfect year of a 
woman's love? Or have you not known a man 
who waited a life-time and served a few people be- 
cause they needed him so? You know, perhaps, that 
his reward came to him in the fullness and ripeness 
of his powers, but he chose to stand aside and let 
other men reap their reward first, because he knew 

[i8] 



Ubc Song*Cpcle 



in his heart that true humiUty meant infinite 
patience and loving service. The heart becomes 
self-centered when there is no more generous motive 
in Hfe than the storing up of Knowledge. Power 
comes through throbbing impulse rather than 
through repose ; through human love rather than 
through intellectual ascendency ; through self-efface- 
ment in the pursuit of a Great Ideal. Live and you 
will write. Serve and you will learn to love. Sing 
your own Song to the multitude before you ask 
that one note of it be written upon the lined page 
whose records, like himian deeds, can never be re- 
called." 



[19] 



®^ Bmt^ nf Sawana 



Cbe Song of Raoana 




(AN EASTER TALE) 

jUT of his palace in the East came 
King Ravana, playing, as he walked, 
his instrument of sycamore wood. 

The tones of the ravanastron 
soothed the listening ear, even as 
the faint sweet essence of spices 
lulled the tired traveller to sleep in 
the green gardens of Ceylon. 

The King was a mystic, an idealist, a prophet of 
things to come in the great world of Art. Men 
neither jeered nor reviled him, parrying his gestures 
and words with rude blows and coarse jests, for the 
world about him was reverent, feeling in his work the 
first expression of a far-away ideal. Though he 
made only melody, men were satisfied, for the beau- 
tiful relations of tones had neither maddened nor 
intoxicated them with significance, nor had Genius 
yet been crushed under the iron heel of Materialism. 
It was a calm, still evening. The King entered his 
garden erect, his dark eyes flashing fire, his nostrils 
distended, his huge breast heaving with sudden 
emotion, for before him there suddenly passed a 
wonderful vision, a pageant in tone, — and he 
heard for the first time the word Beethoven. 

Those about him saw the strings of the ravana- 
stron quiver almost to snapping in their terrible ten- 
sion, and from afar came strange harmonies, ever 

[23] 



Btut>es ot %itc 



increasing in their power and beauty, until the crude 
bow of the King was as a wand of hair. 

At length, into the garden came a young man bear- 
ing upon his forehead the stamp of the high calling of 
God. Kneeling at the feet of Ravana, he held up to 
view two beautiful pieces of wood and a precious vial, 
whose contents changed color before the gaze like the 
chameleon, save that vivid reds and browns and amber 
predominated. King Ravana kissed the forehead of 
the youth, as with upraised hand he blest him, and be- 
hold! the whole world awoke to newness of life in 
that touch of Fatherhood. The trees of the garden 
suddenly became as a sea of fire, and all creeping 
things shrank back into hidden recesses, so bright was 
the face of the Sun. 

" To Thee, Oh Youth," cried the King, raising the 
weary traveller from the ground, " I commit my trust. 
Feeble and imperfect as is this thing of wood that I 
created, it has a living Soul, a perennial Spirit that 
shall not die. Thou wilt perfect it. Thou alone canst 
ennoble it. It shall bring together the Nations of the 
Earth, perfecting them in unbroken Harmony. Take 
it. Oh my Son, for it is thy Heritage, thy golden 
Opportunity." 

The youth smiled, but at the first faint tones of the 
ravanastron, a wave of bitter disappointment took 
possession of him. He had travelled far and suffered 
pitifully, striving in the Desert of Waiting to conserve 
his energies and perfect his ideals. Pained, crushed, 
discouraged, he impulsively struck upon the strings, 
smiting them like a living thing, till they snapped in 
twain; then he dashed the ravanastron upon the 
ground and there it lay, bruised and spent, among 
the upturned faces of the flowers. 

P24] 



Ube Sona of IRavana 



He turned away to hide his grief and disap- 
pointment, nor did he look upon the face of Ravana, 
the mystic, the prophet, the seer, smiling sadly upon 
him as he passed unattended into the gathering dark- 
ness. 

A 

Centuries passed, and lo ! on the walls of a hixmble 
workshop in Cremona, one Easter day, there flashed 
forth a strange legend. None saw it but a white- 
haired old man who, holding a perfected instrument 
in his loving hands, seemed to touch the soul of Ra- 
vana across the abyss of Time. 

In that hour, Antonio Stradivari at last knew himself 
to be the Chosen One, and pressing his violin close to 
his heart, he walked forth into the sunshine to catch 
the first morning smile of God. 



[25] 



^ ^\\nt XB mx Art tmttjout lUttw 
%l^ atilt na How mttlj0«t (Hob* 

(g0&— 2l0W — Art! 
®ijj?0^ tlfr^^ ar0 tlji^ Unks in t\it 

tlfmn 0f tlf^ 

Anl^ tlf0 Btoltn — 3t fe tl|^ 
1!|0U00 l^auttful 

®tum-i^0uL 



Cbe Perfected Bow 



(JEAN LA GARDE) 




T. XAVER, known to the world as a 
historic Canadian town which has 
long since lost its old-time maritime 
prosperity, when wooden ships sailed 
proudly out to sea, bringing back in 
a twelfth month their rich exchange 
from the Old World, enjoys two 
distinctions: It has become a popular simimer re- 
sort even in the face of constant and unremitting 
opposition on the part of its citizens, and it has been 
honored by the presence and residence of a virtuoso, 
of whom, for years, the most eager could find out 
nothing, and concerning whom there was much spec- 
ulation. His name was Jean la Garde and, inasmuch 
as his possessions, inherited from a relative in Mon- 
treal, enabled him to live in peace and quiet at St. 
Xaver, disbursing money to the needy and solace to 
the afflicted, no one bore him ill-will or pried into his 
life. 

Jean la Garde was long past fifty, prematurely old, 
with lines of care upon his face and a strange reti- 
cence in his manner that bespoke the sensitiveness 
of the dreamer and artist. 

In his little house beside the glittering, shifting Bay 
that took to its bosom the fair St. Croix and cast it 

[29] 



Btut)es ot Xife 



far to Fundy's shores, Jean la Garde played the violin 
from morn till night, except in those brief intervals 
when he went to town to buy his provisions and linger 
awhile at eventide with his " garcon," as he called 
him, the village barber, whose violinistic zeal made 
the heart of Jean glad, save when a village dance 
marred the smooth beauty of his tone and rendered 
him insensible to the perfect beauty of old Porpora 
and Corelli and Tartini for a time. 

Poor Pierre! How he had struggled with Baillot, 
Rode, Viotti and all the rest! Even when Jean was 
most sanguine, he often failed utterly for want of the 
stimulus of the outer world, the great world of action, 
tragedy and event; and alas! he tipped the black 
bottle until his arm became too unsteady for even the 
Witches' Dance, or a rollicking hornpipe, 

Jean was patient, kindly, sincere. Besides, he was 
evidently an aristocrat. Pierre was bourgeois in 
everything but his love for his violin and his master. 
He had also that infinite capacity for hero worship 
which exalts any man, whatever his station. 

Jean la Garde, in turn, loved Pierre like a son, for 
the fountain springs of the artist's life run deep and, 
vitiated though they often are, they are fed from a 
perennial spring. 

"Mon perel " " Mon perel " It was the voice of 
Pierre at the door of the old block house where lived 
the virtuoso. 

" I have good news. Thou hast another pupil — 
a young lady, already a virtuoso. She came to my 
mother for a room and sup last night. She shuns the 
hotels. It is not quiet there, and so many people. 
And now, my friend, thou hast at last a pupil after 
thine own heart. She has travelled much, played in 

[30] 



TLbc iPertecteD 3Bow 



great cities, and would rest here in our beautiful 
village, to get strong in our good air. Mon Dieul she 
has thy tone but not thy soul. Thou shalt see. I will 
bring her." 

With that the enthusiastic Pierre was out of the 
house before Jean la Garde could utter a word. He 
stood at his door, stunned, fearful, trembling. Then 
he looked about him. The room was small, clean, 
artistic, yet plainly furnished. A few good pictures 
adorned the walls. An ancient viola da gamba lay 
silent upon an old mahogany table in the comer. 
There were manuscripts all around that day, for he had 
been arranging a wonderful old minuet by Porpora and 
a sonata by Locatelli, for piano and violin, from the 
figured bass, and he was eager to finish his work. 
Pierre had said he would bring the girl. Who might 
she be? He dared not question her, he who had been 
so long an outcast from the art-world. She might be 
some Unk with the Past. She might have lived in 
Paris — and have heard — God ! he could not bear to 
lose the respect of these villagers, of Pierre, — it 
was all he had left, save the comfort of his violin. 

As he stood hesitating and fearful, great beads of 
perspiration coursed down his face. He clutched at 
the open door. A faintness was upon him and he saw 
not. 

" Mon pere ! Mon pere ! She is here — the young 
lady, the virtuoso, as you call it ; she comes from Paris, 
from Berlin, from New York — ever5rwhere she has 
played, but not to you, mon pere, not to you, who are 
the greatest ! " 

Pierre was panting with excitement as he came up 
the steps, followed by his guest. 

A girl in years, with a woman's face and vision, 

[31] 



]£tu&e0 of xtfe 



stepped over the narrow threshold and greeted Jean la 
Garde. Her glossy hair was braided in two long, 
smooth braids around her head. Her forehead was 
low and wide, and under her dark eyebrows Jean la 
Garde saw her wondrous deep blue eyes, blue as the 
sea, as tender as those of a young mother yet as inno- 
cent as a child's ; and he started, awoke, and saw the 
Past from which he was ever trying to shrink. 

The face of his guest was the most beautiful he had 
ever looked upon in its perfect contour. Small as she 
was, she seemed to carry the impression of nobility, of 
stature, of strength ; his mind went back to the grand 
salons and the women who had petted and praised him 
for his genius, and there stopped, for there was a vision 
above them all, better, purer, nobler. 

The girl put out her hand appealingly. He did not 
take it. He only stood there with wide dilated eyes. 
Once he tried to speak, but the words would not come. 

It was Pierre who at last broke the silence, — 
Pierre, confused, disappointed, uneasily shifting from 
one foot to the other. 

" Mon pere," he said softly, " the little lady would 
hear the great violin." 

Jean la Garde stepped to the door of his tiny bed- 
room, opened it, hesitated a moment and passed in, 
leaving the door ajar. 

*' He will play," whispered Pierre, " wait." 

They sat down in the quaint old mahogany chairs, 
standing like straight-backed thoroughbreds against 
the white walls. 

Jean la Garde had taken his violin out of its case, 
and soft tones were already issuing from it, as if im- 
pelled by a reluctant bow. It was only for a moment. 
Just as a ray of sunlight darts out of a rift in a cloud, 

[32] 



Ubc perfected Bow 



warm, tender, joyous and far-reaching, the violin 
awoke to life, and Jean la Garde was himself as of 
old. 

Strange scenes passed before his vision, strange only 
in point of distance from the present ; throbbing life was 
before him, and the plaudits of the world for which he 
had once sacrificed all, intoxicated him, feeding his 
ambition, whetting his appetite for virtuosity, madden- 
ing him as of yore. 

The girl listened, but not eagerly. She had heard 
the greatest. This was indeed virtuosity. The tone 
was beautiful, but it sounded no new depths in her soul. 
Suddenly Pierre touched her elbow. 

" Wait," he said softly ; looking at the Crucifix in 
the far comer of the room, he crossed himself. 

From the next room came that famous old Adagio 
by Corelli. It seemed as if there were four vioUns 
playing, each one vying with the others in beauty of 
tone and perfect intonation. 

" He will play Tartini now," whispered Pierre, as the 
last tones of the Corelli died away in a cadence of exqui- 
site beauty. " It is ever so." 

As the noble theme of the G Minor Sonata fell upon 
her ears, the girl started, awoke, almost crying out in 
her joy. Her mother had played that air into her very 
soul in childhood, played it until it had almost driven 
her to madness, and then she had kissed a picture in a 
locket that she wore close to her heart. The girl had 
never asked a question then, but when, as the years 
passed and she, too, played the work, she learned that 
it was based upon the old story of the desertion of 
Queen Dido by iEneas at Carthage, she began to ask 
herself if perhaps her mother too had been deserted. 
But she put the idea out of her mind. Her mother had 

[33] 



BtuDes of %itc 



said once — only once, — " He who taught me this 
Sonata loved me — he was not to blame. It was the 
violin and the bow that did all the mischief." 

As Jean la Garde finished those noble chords that 
precede the joyous optimism of the finale, a string 
snapped. Pierre uttered a groan of disappointment. 

" He will play no more," he said discontentedly. 

" So it ended for me," they heard the player say to 
himself. 

In the outer room he took them by the hand, simply 
saying, " You will come another day. I will play the 
other Tartini." 

Pierre kissed his hand. The girl looked into the 
face of the great artist earnestly, almost pleadingly. 
She had begun to feel the spell of his art. As they 
turned to go Jean la Garde suddenly leaned against the 
door for support. He seemed about to fall. 

" Mon DIeu, the great violin ! " cried Pierre, spring- 
ing to his side. " What if it had fallen ! " 

" It might be better so," answered Jean la Garde, as 
he touched the hand of his friend, for there were times 
when his soul cried out so for human sympathy, that 
he was almost mad. When the sea failed and the vio- 
lin, there was Pierre, the bourgeois, the plodder, the 
artisan, with his great heart. The grasp of his hand 
and the sound of his voice were as manna to this man, 
who carried the tragedy of his life like a mill-stone 
about his neck, saving him from himself — that nether 
self, ruined, desolate, forgotten by friends, lost to the 
world of Art, lost almost to God — save that in his 
manhood there still lurked some strange instinct that 
led him nightly to the Crucifix. 



[34] 



Ube perfected Bow 



n 

Nearly a month had passed. Every day Mile. Marie, 
as the villagers had begun to call her, came to the 
house of Jean la Garde for instruction. He would 
have it so, and she, eager, joyous, discerning, saw that 
growth in her art-life meant spiritual awakening for 
the silent man in the block house. They played the 
Spohr Duets to Pierre and he Ustened gravely, but his 
heart was for Paganini, so in a vagrant mood, his 
teacher would close with the "Witches' Dance or one of 
the Caprices. There were days and days v/hen Nardini, 
CorelH, Veracini and LocatelU reigned. Mile. Marie 
listened eagerly, for, in the traditional rendering of 
these works, she felt the spirit of one who, of his school, 
may have been the greatest, — old Viotti, from whose 
followers Jean la Garde had received instruction. She 
dared not play the modems to him, for he Uved in that 
classic world made precious to him by long silence and 
deep meditation. 

One day she brought him the Tschaikowsky Con- 
certo. Though he had never heard it, he played Uke a 
master till he came to the second movement — the 
Canzonetta. Then he looked puzzled and asked her 
to play the piano part. They played it over and over, 
he seeming never to tire of it. At last he placed his 
violin in its case and said hoarsely, 

" This man must have suffered more than any 
man in the world save one perhaps — " 

There was a long silence. Then the girl placed her 
hand on his arm, with a rare sweet gesture born of dis- 
cerning womanhood and deepest sympathy. 

" We suffer," said she, " that we may have some- 

[35] 



BtuOes ot Xite 



thing more to give to the world about us. Not as we 
live do we play, but as the divine in us would have 
us to live. All that we have done in the past is for- 
gotten, atoned for, forgiven by the dear God above. 
I care not to be great, as the world calls greatness. I 
would rather be a blameless artisan like Pierre, than 
sound one note that does not express a lofty ideal; 
and yet — and yet — I am not ready, not strong 
enough nor noble enough yet for the mission — I wish 
to help people to live better through my art. You 
must help me, my teacher, you are so much greater 
than I." 

The man shrank back as if stung. 

" Child ! " he cried passionately, " you cannot know 
what it means to have sacrificed all that is worthy 
and beautiful in life to cold relentless Ambition. Go 
— go — I may say what I would not. Jean la Garde 
is an outcast, and his art, crying out from that Strad, 
leaping from the hair of that Tourte bow, is but the 
wreck of a life — the bitter mockery of God's judg- 
ment ! " 

The girl looked toward the overhanging Crucifix 
and laid her hand in his. She was not afraid. 

"Jean la Garde," she said softly, "God's love can 
heal. God's mercy never fails. Life is not all lost 
to you. You have awakened my soul to love and 
serve Art better. The God in you is not dead ! " 

She was gone. Jean la Garde knelt before the 
Crucifix. When, at last, he arose, he had begim life 
anew. 



[36] 



Ube pcrtecteJ) Bow 



in 

That night there fell upon the coast of New Bruns- 
wick one of those terrific and cruel storms that are 
the terror of the mariner. Jean la Garde had always 
loved such nights. He revelled in them, sometimes 
playing to their wild inspiration until long into the 
night. Somehow they had seemed to free his spirit. 
To-night he played as he seldom played, wild impro- 
visations, surging with the memory of his past life, 
bare, helpless, yet defiant. 

There was a knock at the door. A hooded figure 
stepped upon the worn threshold, but the man heard 
not. Suddenly there was a sound, long, booming, 
ominous, from across the Bay. Had any soul dared 
to leave the harbor in that awful night? Jean la 
Garde stepped to the door. There was one long note 
of distress followed by another and another. 

Mile. Marie touched his arm. 

"Jean la Garde," she cried, hoarsely, "it is the 
steamer from St. John. Pierre and the Mayor are on 
board. They are six hours late. The wharves are 
full of our good people, but no one dares go out in 
such a night." 

Again there sounded that ominous note across the 
Bay. It seemed closer — nearer to the sand-bar that 
stretched sinister and treacherous out into the mouth 
of the St. Croix. 

" Play, Jean la Garde," she cried, " for God's sake, 
play! I will pray for all His creatures who are in 
peril, — Pierre, thy friend, and the good mayor, and 
many others that are out upon the sea in this awful 
night. There are beacon lights everywhere. All the 

[37] 



Btu^es of %iU 



town is awake. Play, Jean la Garde, we can do noth- 
ing there !" 

Hours passed. Jean la Garde sent up his prayer to 
God, and God heard it. He played as never before. 
The girl knelt long before the Crucifix. Ere the morn- 
ing light broke upon St. Xaver, Pierre and the good 
Mayor, storm-spent but alive, were safe in their beds. 
The beacon lights had not failed. 

Into the heart of Jean la Garde had come a strange yet 
perfect peace. He had told Mile. Marie the story of his 
life, and he had learned from her Ups and from the 
locket that she wore at her neck that she was indeed 
the child of that other Marie whom for fame he had 
long ago abandoned. To his crushed and bleeding 
spirit it was Uke a heavenly message to hear that she 
never had reproached him though she never spoke his 
name, even on her deathbed. One thing only had 
Mile. Marie asked him sternly, " Did my mother ever 
have a wedding ring ? " 

" We were married," said he, " at Bordeaux. I 
pawned the ring at Monte Carlo. That was when the 
curse began." 

In the gray morning light the two sat hand in hand 
before the Crucifix. Neither spoke. All wounds were 
healed. Both were thinking of the great work before 
them, the work of love and service, — the only expia- 
tion for the Past. Pierre found them thus a little later, 
and they told him all. 



1381 



Zbc perfectet) Bow 



IV 

It was a beautiful day in early September, cool, 
vigorous, and prophetic of that early Autiunn which 
creeps upon us unawares at St. Xaver. The green and 
dank old wharves seemed to have taken on a holiday 
appearance. The streets of the quiet old town were 
alive with curiosity-stricken citizens and visitors, the 
last of the summer colony. 

That morning the old block house was closed and 
barred. Jean la Garde and Mile. Marie had told the 
villagers that they were father and daughter — that 
was all. The remainder of the story lay safe with 
Pierre. They were going out into the great world 
again to warm and comfort and bless it through Art. 
The sorrows of their lives had deepened their poten- 
tiality. Good- will and loving words followed them out 
of the harbor and into the unknown future. 

From time to time there came news to St. Xaver of 
them, stories that Pierre, in his simple faith and loving 
remembrance, treasured like household Penates. Mile. 
Marie was playing upon the famous Strad, with the still 
more famous Tourte bow ; the soul of the violin and the 
soul of Jean la Garde were shriven, consecrated, per- 
fected. Wherever they went — the girl, the man and 
the violin, there came perfect peace to all who listened ; 
and when at rare intervals they played together, people 
bowed their heads and wept. 

Thus do men expiate the errors of their youth, look- 
ing into the clear depths of a woman's soul for a reflec- 
tion of the Christ. 



[39 



®I}^ Olruribl^ 0f Art 




Cbe Crucible of JTrt 



|HE was a petite, fragile-looking crea- 
ture with great brown eyes that 
dreamed and dreamed until the Pro- 
fessor had to rap on her violin sharply 
with his bow, to bring her back to this 
mundane sphere long enough to play 
her Rode Caprices intelHgently. The 
other students smiled, for the " Amerikanerin," with 
her Uttle shoes, her wonderful golden hair and her 
flashes of strange melancholy, relieved by an occa- 
sional brilUant and vivacious rendering of the Faust 
Fantasie, in which the Professor took great delight, 
was a puzzle and a curiosity to them. Herr Nussbaum 
stroked his feeble, tow-colored moustache, too short to 
curl at the ends in the KaiserUch fashion, and won- 
dered why his own masterly rendition of the Faust 
failed to elicit applause and awaken enthusiasm. 
Fraulein Wittig pursed her rosy lips, stuck both fat 
hands on her spacious hips, and sighed. Sometimes 
she even went so far as to yawn when the " Ameri- 
kanerin " played, but these occasions were rare, for 
the Professor had keen eyes, and he disliked jealousy 
of any kind. 

But there was a new element, — a strange new at- 
mosphere of comradeship in the Studio, which the 
class could not understand. The " Amerikanerin " 
had resented a sarcastic remark made by the Professor, 
and had actually espoused the cause of another girl 
with vehemence, accusing him openly of being unjust 

[43] 



jEtuOes ot Xite 



and capricious. The German boys and girls sat fairly 
trembling with excitement as the colloquy progressed, 
not daring to raise their eyes from the floor, — for had 
he not called them " Dummkopf " and many other vitu- 
perous epithets these many years? And yet, when not 
irritated, he was so kind and generous! One could 
hardly believe that an American girl with little talent, 
no pedigree and no dowry, could actually break down 
the barriers of form, and presume to criticise a dis- 
tinguished artist. 

When all the other students had departed, the girl 
waited, for she knew she had hiu"t him. 

" I did not mean to be discourteous," she said sim- 
ply; then, like a lightning flash, her whole attitude 
changed. Her breath came quickly, her hands 
clenched behind her back and her voice trembled. 

" I cannot play to you any more," she passionately 
exclaimed, " I cannot play even if the other students 
are absent. I don't know why. It is a something 
that seems to stifle all the musical expression in my 
soul. I am going to give up my lessons." 

The man's face changed. Deep lines of sorrow 
came into it, and his lips trembled under his mous- 
tache, but he did not speak. Once he coughed slightly, 
as he fumbled among some sheets of music; then, 
without word or warning, he turned and left the room. 

The girl waited — waited for half an hour, but he 
did not return. At length she went to his desk and 
wrote : "No one has ever believed in me as you have. 
It meant so much to me. Forgive me if I seemed dis- 
respectful, I am only an American girl — crude at 
best — and, you see, I didn't know — " 

Here the letter ceased. She did not even sign her 
name, hardly reahzing that her informal manner of 

[44] 



Ube Crucible of art 



expression was still more of a breach of etiquette, and 
then, softly closing the door, she passed out into the 
street just as the lights were beginning to shed a soft 
glow over the glistening snow of the December 
night. 

A lazy cabman passed by, his brr-r-r sounding in 
her ears like a faint buzzing sound. Her senses were 
bentunbed, her whole frame quivering with pain. 
She had come to Berlin alone, unfriended, unwarned, 
innocent, sanguine because wholly ignorant of the 
great world of Art and the long weary route by which, 
at last, one gains recognition and distinction. 

The first few months had almost killed her, so great 
was her loneliness and disappointment. She had, like 
many another American girl, learned just where she 
stood in relation to Art and, as the days passed and her 
own crudities became more and more apparent to her, 
her very soul shrank back and her spirits sank. Poor 
child! She was tasting the first bitter experience of 
life and study abroad, and in that great city of Berlin, 
she had not one friend to whom she could go for com- 
fort. Not one, did I say? Yes, there was one. The 
Professor had understood the longing and the pain. 
He had put his hand on her golden head and begged 
her to take courage. He had believed in her — yes, 
he had even taken the trouble to hunt her up and to tell 
her, with all his fine delicacy and manliness, why she 
must put herself under the protection of some honest 
American or German woman, while pursuing her stud- 
ies in the great Capital. He had secured a place for 
her in Frau Kessler's Pension, and, when she had con- 
fessed how little money she had for her expenses and 
her study, he had written a long letter to her Uncle 
who, of all her family, believed in her future. Yes, he 

[45] 



BtuOes ot %itc 



it was who, with a nature none too calm and nerves 
none too controlled, had given her the very best that 
was in him, striving to work out in her his own ideals 
of Art. He could make his pupils suffer sometimes, 
and he did, but never once had he been unkind to her 
or belittled her in the presence of the other members 
of his class. 

And now she had hurt him — perhaps lost him by 
her ill-advised remarks. She fairly tottered as she 
reached the Pension on Potsdamer Strasse, at the 
door of which stood Johann Kessler. He had just 
lighted his cigar and seemed somewhat surprised to 
see her. 

" Out late again? " he said reproachfully. 

" Don't speak to me, Johann !" cried the girl, with a 
quivering voice, " I have offended the Professor. I am 
just ill over it and so discouraged! " 

Johann threw away his cigar in sheer surprise and 
alarm. He was the Professor's pupil, and a " star 
pupil " too. How could he endure the thought of not 
being admitted into a secret! His pronounced Ger- 
man curiosity was not proof against the temptation to 
excuse himself from an evening at Frau von Borge's, 
across the street, although he knew that the young 
von Borge girls would be fascinating and the beer of 
the best. "Was not the " Amerikanerin " under his 
mother's protection? And was she not in his quartet 
class? The Professor favored her, too, and who would 
not espouse the cause of a favorite? Johann thrust 
his hand through his tawny hair till it stood straight 
and bristling, then he put his violin carefully in a cor- 
ner, and having offered his colleague the most com- 
fortable chair in the big parlor, stammered out : 

"The Professor! The Professor! How could you 

[46] 



TLbc Crucible ot Brt 



provoke him, Fraulein, he so kind and good a man and 
so much your friend ! " 

The young man had evidently forgotten a recent vi- 
tuperous epithet which the Professor had bestowed 
upon him when he had played the Devil's Trill Sonata 
in a very unsatisfactory manner, but German boys 
never mind wordy castigations. 

The girl sat silently weeping in the big old-fashioned 
chair in the comer. Friendless, crushed, totally un- 
strung by the events of the afternoon, Johann's rough 
boyish sympathy seemed to appeal to her. To-morrow 
he might again annoy her by his steady stare at the 
dinner table, and his ill-expressed compliments might 
lead her to again poke fun at him, but to-night she 
seemed to be nearer to him than ever before. 

Good Frau Kessler entered as they sat there talking 
it all over ; she took the trembling girl to her big warm 
German heart, imprinting a kiss upon her white fore- 
head, and soothing her as if she had been a little child. 

" Poor little Liebchen ! Poor, poor Kleine ! " the 
good woman murmured, as she patted the golden head 
and looked into the tearful eyes. " It is a hard road — 
the road to Art. I tell Johann so, but he will pursue 
it, and some day, who knows, he may become the Con- 
certmeister — " 

" Hush mother, I am only a clod, a mere Kiiastler 
of low degree," replied Johann, blushing to the very 
roots of his tawny hair. 

The girl rose, and stretched out her hands appeal- 
ingly. 

" I have no right, dear friends," she said simply, 
" to burden you with my griefs. It is selfish. For- 
give me. I know I am over-sensitive, careless and 
strange to you. I know that I am presuming when 

[47] 



]£tu&es ot %ifc 



one considers the dignity of the Professor. I am not 
worthy to be in Berlin, — but oh, I have come to love 
my violin so much! " 

A burst of emotion seemed to overpower her. As 
she turned to leave the room she staggered, tripped, 
and fell headlong against the broad oak panel of the 
heavy door. When they Ufted her from the floor, she 
was unconscious. 

For many days and weeks she lay ill in her white bed 
that had been divested of its German feather mattress 
above and below, for she wished to feel herself at home 
in America, she said, when she began to notice people 
and things again. During her illness, her mind always 
wandered back to that last day at the Professor's 
house. Good Frau Kessler nursed her like a mother, 
and Johann bore many messages of cheer from the 
Professor. 

She seemed to rally slowly. She had long been over- 
worked, and hard study had taken from her whatever 
nervous force she had once possessed. 

The Professor, busy as he was, wrote many long let- 
ters to the dear ones in America. These were so full 
of hope, and brought such cheerful answers, that the 
girl herself began to take courage. 

In the long August afternoons she was able to drive 
in the Tiergarten with the Professor and his sister, 
but her heart yearned so for the homeland that one day, 
when they were quite alone, she put her small white 
hand in that of her teacher and said, 

" I know I shall never be the same again. I am 
changed. I fear that I can never play now as I once 
hoped that I could. You have all been so good to me, 
but I must go home. I can, perhaps, teach there and 
do some good, but I am going to ask you now to for- 

[48] 



Ube Crucible ot Hrt 



give me for the pain I once caused you. I can never 
forget it." 

The Professor, visibly moved, replied in a voice that 
she had never heard before, so gentle wsls it, 

" I beg that you will never mention this. I am the 
real cause. I have suffered. I can never make 
amends — " 

She looked into his face, and there she saw his great 
soul and something more that made her strong — so 
strong that she felt as if she could conquer every ob- 
stacle in the world. Instinctively she put her hand in 
his, and thus they rode through the Tiergarten, as the 
setting sun cast its benediction over the earth. 

That night the Professor sat a long time smoking 
fiercely, in his quaint old garden in Charlottenburg. 
Then he and his sister played an old Sonata by Loca- 
telli, for they never omitted their evening of music to- 
gether, except in the stress of winter concerts. 

" Mariechen," said the Professor, " I am old and 
gray — you know that, but after all these years of wait- 
ing, I have found a bird for the nest. You know that 
in early manhood it was necessary for me to renounce 
all that the right kind of man holds dear in life, in order 
to attain something in Art. It has brought much joy 
— this Art — but I have always missed something in 
my Ufe, I could hardly tell what it was; but lately I 
know — I know, Mariechen ! " 

He bowed his head and wept; the tears were the 
tears of a great man facing a great joy. 

Mariechen put her hand on his big shaggy head, and 
then she bent down and kissed him. 

" Duchen, duchen," she whispered, calling him once 
more by the endearing term of childhood, " I have 
been praying for this all my life. Hast thou not sur- 

[49] 



lEtu&es of Xtfe 



mised it ? She will bring joy and peace, beauty and 
youth to our home — the * Amerikanerin,' and who 
but I could have known it all the time ! " 

When the Professor gave a farewell concert in the 
Singakademie, preparatory to undertaking his first 
American tour, those who had heard him play for 
more than twenty years declared that he had never re- 
vealed as he did that night, his possibilities as an artist. 
Mariechen sat there in the audience beaming with 
pride, love and happiness, — and the " Amerikan- 
erin ? " There was just one shadow on her face. 
She had seen Frau Kessler come in alone. Johann 
was not there. He, too, was being tried in the cruci- 
ble of Art. He, too, must suffer. That night she 
wrote to an old friend in America : 

" We are coming home, and I shall have much to tell 
you. I now know what it means to become an artist, 

— to be tried in the fire and come out victorious 
through much suffering. Do you recall that George 
Eliot's Consuelo pictured Art with a crown of thorns ? 
Oh, how we grow through pain ! And how we radiate 
strength when we come out of the crucible perfected 
as far as our natures may become perfected in this life. 
I told you once that if I gave up my Art, you should 
have my violin, but I cannot part with it, for it is dear, 

— it, too, has suffered. If you could hear its message 
to-day, it would say, * There is no Art without Love, 
and no Love without God. God — Love — Art ! 
These three are the links in the chain of the 
Perfected Life. And the Violin — it is the House 
Beautiful where dwells my Twin-Soul ! ' " 



[50] 



X 



Co my Ualentine 

am lljtttkutg 0f ®I|r^ tn-JJag, mg Uabttttm, 
tljutktttg Ijarb btraua^ ottj^ra ar? Hritbutg 
tl|0tr tokens of aflTi^rttntu 3( J>0 ttot it^^Ji 
t0 turit^ ®I|f0 a Bp^rtal grp^ting, fnr ®I|ou Ijajst 
ten uritlj m^ ronBtawtlg for mang para, — b^ 
% fir^atti?, an % a^a, ut atrattg? Ia«J>a a«l> ru^tt 
tfl tl|0 (iaaia nf % i^a^rt nf Uttaattafi^Ii i?at». 
HljatPtipr 0f jng or aurr^aa tlyprr ta I^ft for xub 
m ltf0 ta Unk^Ji until ©Ij??. Aa a mo%r rl;?rtal|pa 
I|^r uttbont rl|tl&, ao hn 3 rlj^rialj ®l;r?, for ®J|Ott 
art mij primal Olaparttg for Affrrtton atrogglUtg 
to rata? m? to tl|? Jitguttij of ©r«^ Homanljooli. 
®n-Jiag ©Ijou ioat sttm mor? pr^riooa to m^ tlyan 
of gore. 3 mt ®I|?e ttt tl|? Iiapp^ far^a of rljilhriett 
anb m tljf am^^t amtl^a of m^tt m\h mom^n ml|o 
tt^th ttjf ataff to Qtxxht tIjFtr fatlutg footatppa. 
31 a00 ©It^r bg tt|0 be!iat5? of pattt, g^a, S I|aof 
fbllom^b ®lf^^ almoat to tl|? l^all^g of tl|? i^Ijaiiotii 
of i^atli. grt maa 3 not rl|tlb5. 0^, ®tjon l^antt- 
fnl ^pmt of P^r^nntal Soo^, to-Jiag 2( gr^^t OI!|p^ 
aa n^tt^r b^for?, brrana? . at laat, 3 r^altz? tlyat 
2It|on art non? otlji^r ttjan mg ^x^Bt ^tit 



Co my Ualentine 




HE was a New England woman, and 
that generally means that one is 
^ reared in a somewhat stereotyped 
way, with too little poetry in the en- 
vironment. I can recall her as she 
sat in front of me at church, her 
back comb set at exactly the same 
angle it had assumed for twenty years, her gray hair 
plain, precise, prim, scanty — as if the head it cov- 
ered were worn with the drudgery of Life. But she 
never called it drudgery. 

Oh, how I longed for her sunshine and her faith in 
the long years of our friendship! She was my best 
friend, and that counts in New England, but I cannot 
recall any real love-token that ever passed our lips. 
She understood and I, in turn, felt her living, breath- 
ing, human, sensitive womanhood all the time about 
me, strengthening me and shaming mine own poor 
selfishness and earthiness. I had seen so much more 
of the world than she had that she depended upon me 
for breadth of vision in things musical and mental — 
never spiritual, for she was my uplift. 

You will be surprised when I tell you that she 
never once expressed a wish for a larger life than 
that which came to her in her little country town. 
The " old people " needed her, and the " young people " 
needed lessons, — that was enough for her to know. 
Duty was the first tenet of her life, but it was loving 

[S3] 



lEtuOcs ot %iU 



duty, and God blessed and crowned her work a hundred 
fold each year. 

I recall my first music lessons with her. There 
seemed to be a faint, almost imperceptible essence in 
the room; she never failed to carry it wherever she 
went. It was the aroma of spirituality which always 
accompanies the handmaids of God in their cease- 
less service to the children of the rank and file. 
And I have known rare maternal instincts in these 
frail, hard-worked, thin-featured women who serve 
and yearn over youth with a devotion seldom equalled 
save in the annals of martyrdom, for Maternity is not 
merely childbearing, but childrearing, and Love is not 
so physical a thing that it needs to limit itself to our 
own flesh and blood relations. 

One day in midwinter, when the snow lay glisten- 
ing on the ground and the sleigh bells tinkled in the 
still air their first belated welcome to rosy and eager 
youth, she came to me to minister and to comfort, 
for I had been very ill. I forgot, in her presence, 
the long days of pain and nights of fretful moaning 
over the loss of concerts and lessons. Then it was 
that she told me how she had saved, planned and 
sacrificed, that she might go to the city and study 
with one of whom we think with silent reverence, for 
his wonderful work is ended. It was in his presence, 
she said, that she had learned the true meaning of 
Art to the toiler and breadwinner. How her face 
glowed as she related how he taught ! 

" My poor fingers," said she, " have never been 
clever. I am not gifted with executive power. I 
had almost believed myself a mere machine, had it 
not been that I felt the impulse to prepare young 
hearts and brains for Life as well as for Art. I 

[54l 



Zo /IDs IDalentfne 



seemed so weak and helpless in the presence of his 
great gifts. But, as he sat improvising, or working 
on some new composition, his keen eyes fixed on 
mine with a subtle kind of mystery in them, he told 
me that the most powerful forces for Art in America 
were often found in communities where one drew a 
small circle and concentrated one's brightest and 
best upon a few individuals. To influence the ideals 
of a little town, said he, meant infinitely more than 
the transient fame of mere virtuosity. I began to 
feel strong in my small sphere, striving in the studio, 
the church and the home, to carry a living message 
through Art to every human soul. Before that I had 
seemed but a plain. New England woman with only a 
feeble imagination and fewer gifts. He awoke in me 
all that lay dormant; the impulse to serve more 
truly and acceptably the least of God's children. 
And, best of all, he said to me that if God had denied 
me Genius, he had given me a great craving for 
Knowledge, and a love for all things beautiful. 

" My soul now cried out in ecstasy at the thought 
of powers and possibilities I had hitherto not realized. 
I silently thanked God for the inspiration of those 
lessons to which I had looked forward so long and 
eagerly. I came home and served. The creating of 
ideals seemed to energize my vagrant faculties. There 
were some dark days, but he said it would all come 
out right, and it did." 

Her simple yet eloquent story aroused in me genu- 
ine enthusiasm for her Ufe and appreciation of her 
work; in the months that followed, when again I 
took up the thread of life in a great city, I seemed to 
be less restless, less impatient for the mere plaudits 
of the passing throng who to-day extol and to-morrow 

[55] 



]Etu&es of Xite 



are indifferent in the light of a new star or a fresh 
sensation. 

Life began gradually to mean more to me than 
mere pleasure-giving. My soul cried out to serve a 
few even as she had done so faithfully and so well. 

After a time I went abroad, and I saw no more of 
her for many months, but I afterwards learned that 
my letters, written in the feverish life of a great for- 
eign city, were treasured and eagerly read to her 
pupils. I heard that the long, severe winter had 
been a great tax on her strength, and that her friends 
feared she would be obliged to go away for a season 
of rest. The next year there came still more dubious 
reports of her health and then, at last, the news that 
the dear hands were silent forever. It seemed to me 
that there was a great void in my life, a great aching 
void that could never be filled. Had she left me no 
word — no message of joy or peace, no uplift for the 
silent years to come ? 

One morning in February I arose pale and listless, 
jaded by the opera of the night before. There came 
a knock at my door. 

" You have forgotten, Liebchen," cried the Mos- 
kowski Girl, " that it is St. Valentine^s Day. Look, 
look! and one for you from America." 

I took the package in my hand and I thought, as 
with eager trembling fingers I opened it, that some 
delicate and almost forgotten aroma emanated from 
its folds. The Moskowski Girl had a dozen love 
tokens in her hand, but she did not show them to 
me. 

" Poor Liebchen," she whispered, as she saw my 
tears, " poor, poor Liebchen, there is, after all, only 
one America and that seems so far away." 

[56] 



Uo fl&^ IDalenttne 



She went out softly and I was alone — no, not 
alone, for the message lay on my desk. It was a 
piece of illuminated cardboard on which were written 
these lines : 



©a M^ labntttt?. 

I am thinking of Thee to-day, my Valentine, think- 
ing hard because others are sending their tokens of 
affection. I do not need to write Thee a special 
greeting, for Thou hast been with me constantly for 
many years, — by the fireside, on the sea, in strange 
lands and even to the Oasis of the Desert of Un- 
satisfied Desire. Whatever of joy or success there is 
left for me in Life is linked with Thee. As a mother 
cherishes her unborn child, so do I cherish Thee, for 
Thou are my primal Capacity for Affection strug- 
gling to raise me to the true dignity of Womanhood. 
To-day Thou dost seem more precious to me than of 
yore. I see Thee in the happy faces of children and 
in the sweet smiles of men and women who need the 
Staff to guide their failing footsteps. I see Thee by 
the bedside of pain, yea, I have followed Thee almost 
to the Valley of the Shadow of Death, yet was I not 
chilled. Oh, Thou Beautiful Spirit of Perennial 
Love, to-day I greet Thee as never before, because, at 
last, I realize that Thou art none other than my 
Highest Self. 

There were bleeding hearts on the page, but I 
hardly saw them. There, in her loved hand, shone 
out the message that should go down the years like 

[57] 



3etu&es ot Xite 



a benediction. There was a letter, too, written by 
her loving hand ; how eloquent its timbre ! 

" Dear One," it said, " I am going away where Art 
lives and God loves. I would have put off the jour- 
ney at first. There seemed so much to be done 
here. But the time has come, I know. I am send- 
ing my Valentine. I, who have so long served Art 
and my neighbor's children, have at last to let go my 
hold upon Life. You, Little One, must take hold of 
the chain. You will carry out my ideals with your 
fresh young soul and your wide experience. Even if 
you can give only a part of yourself to my garden, I 
want you — and you alone. I have sent many Val- 
entines. This is the only one I ever sent to myself 
— my Better Self. It is yours, for you are to be my 
Other Self, the one who will carry out my ideals, — 
the first child of my long ministry." 



" Professor," I said, " I am going back to America. 
There is a place there that needs me sorely. I will 
do what I can for it and try to stimulate some nobler 
soul to do its work even better than I can. After all, 
the concert life is not the most satisfying. I must 
serve the people who made it possible for me to come 
to Europe for study, and they need me now." 

" Little One," answered the Professor, " you will 
always carry a great message. Remember that the 
gate is open and every summer, when the rest season 
comes, you are to sojourn with us. There are many 
things of which we will speak not found in sonata or 
fugue. The woman who wrote that Valentine was 
on the heights; we are only scaling the sides of the 

[58] 



XTo /ID^ Dalenttne 



mountain. Did you see the sunset last night? 
They say that St. Hedwig's had a halo around its 
spire, — an optical illusion, of course, but they 
called it a Halo. I wish we had been there to see it, 
you and I, but the Valentine lady — she would have 
had no need of it." 



[S9l 



' - i^-r I • ^H^^ 



Ibear se, 



f0*ra*ell 



Piu adagio. 



dim. 



ITS * ta * 611 beat . . . wbat tbe ILorO speaft=etbl 



Hstrtd 




STOOD leaning over the railing while 
the stevedores on the steamship 
Aragon were throwing great bales of 
cotton into the hold, accompanying 
their task with a monotonous song, 
the words of which soimded strangely 
in my ears. 

" Papa," said a child's voice, " I heard them say 
* Down on the Swanee,' and then they threw the cot- 
ton way over in that corner. Now listen, they are cry- 
ing * Back of the graveyard * — see ! there it goes, 
papa, over on the other side of the ship. Isn't it funny 
that the negroes have names for every part of the 
ship? " 

" Who told you that, Astrid? " asked a tall, blue- 
eyed Wotan, as he bent over the child and kissed her 
forehead. 

" Why, the engineer that carried me in his arms 
when mamma was sick, — my * chief,'" answered the 
little one. 

The family were evidently returning from the South, 
where, as their subsequent conversation revealed, they 
had gone for the child's health. 

Quaint Charleston offered no real pleasure to them. 
Astrid was no better. 

Oh, how I longed to right things for this great strong 
man who sang out so lustily with the stevedores, and 
who was as tender as a woman toward his little girl. 

[63] 



Btu^es of Xifc 



That he was an opera singer I did not doubt, for 
he walked up and down the deck, his book in hand, 
humming a line or two, and smiling back at his 
little one, as she lay propped up in her steamer 
chair. 

"Well, how is Astrid today?" I heard a fine manly 
voice exclaim, and the chief engineer, blue-eyed, gen- 
uinely honest and unmistakably English, leaned over 
the child and ran his fingers through her golden 
curls. 

" Very well, thank you, * chief,* " Astrid replied. 
Then with naive innocence she continued, while her 
little hand stole into his big tanned palm, " Haven't 
you any little girls at home? " 

" Nary a one," replied her friend, with a blush under 
his tan, " I'm a bachelor." 

" Poor man, — poor, poor * chief,' " the little girl 
soothingly murmured, as she patted his hand. " Some- 
time you will have some little girls of your own. Papa 
says one little girl is worth a whole bagful of money." 

" That's so, Astrid," the young " chief " answered 
earnestly, " a little girl like you is worth a fortime, and 
some day you'll earn a fortune for your father and 
mother, and then we'll all go to Europe, — just think 
of it!" 

He laughed a jolly rollicking laugh, and lifting 
the child tenderly in his strong arms, the two went 
up and down the deck singing snatches of The Elijah 
and The Messiah, for had not the ** chief" been a choir 
boy in England, and had not Astrid heard her father 
and mother sing from all the greatest operas and ora- 
torios all her short life? Brief as that life had been, 
she had grown so wonderfully in mind and heart that 
the frail little body just seemed to be shrinking away. 

[64] 



Hstrit) 

They tried to check her precocity, but it was so nec- 
essary to her being that at last they let her grow, and 
she grew toward the Infinite every day. When she 
sang, or when the tiny fingers worked out a theme at 
the piano, and her big earnest eyes looked into your 
soul, you knew — everyone knew — that Astrid had 
been initiated into the deepest problems of God*s 
paternity. 

When, at last, the two friends discovered the fair- 
haired Norwegian mother, with her large propor- 
tions, yet refined and spiritual face, beaming with love 
and tenderness, as she came up the gang plank after a 
brief shopping trip, like two amiable children they sat 
down in the steamer chair and ate chocolates and bon- 
bons in absolute content. 

" Sweet mamma, let's sing * Lift Thine Eyes.* Don't 
you hear the negroes singing? If we sing too, they 
may work better," said the child, when, at last, the 
sweets were eaten. 

" We must do all she asks," the mother whispered 
to the young Englishman, " all she asks." 

A wave of pain crossed her usually placid face. 
Astrid was her all. They had told her in Jacksonville 
— the doctors in New York, also — that there was no 
hope. She prayed to God that it might not be true 
that the life that she had begotten, nourished and idol- 
ized, must be taken from her. Could life have any joy 
for her with Astrid gone? 



They had finished " Lift Thine Eyes." The steve- 
dores had suddenly ceased their monotonous song. 
The air seemed surcharged with expectancy. A shiver, 
a snort of the great engine, the sound of many good- 

[65] 



BtuOes ot Xitc 



byes, and a child's voice rang out clear and true above 
the confusion : 

" God be with you till we meet again ! " 

The young EngUshman had gone to his engine, but 
Astrid's father and mother, and all the passengers in 
the vicinity, joined in the song. 

On the wharf rude sailors, stevedores, and friends of 
outward bound passengers stood with bared heads. It 
was Astrid's benediction. 

The good ship steamed out of the beautiful harbor, 
and Astrid turned her little face, as she sang, toward 
the Battery, where the sun lay reflected in a ball of gold 
that shot out ray upon ray of gladness among waving 
palms and flowering oleanders. 



It was a Sunday afternoon in May. The roof gar- 
den of the Children's Hospital was swarming with pale 
Uttle creatures who constituted the convalescent pa- 
tients. Astrid was there in her little wheeled carriage, 
her knee propped up to keep her from the constant pain 
that had racked her Ufe for weeks. Her face seemed 
more spiritual. The great blue eyes looked within 
instead of without. Heavenward instead of earthward. 
She was so emaciated that one could clasp one's fingers 
around her wrists. After the first operation, she had 
seemed better. Her mother had sailed for Europe to 
fulfil a short engagement, for artists are breadwinners 
after all, and it was necessary. 

There was an iron raiUng around the roof garden 
and, as Astrid's nurse reached a certain spot, she 
fastened a handkerchief there. Instantly a similar 

[66] 



beacon floated from a window of a neighboring house. 
In a few minutes a figure appeared on the roof, and 
there stood Astrid's papa, who could visit his little girl 
at the Hospital only once a day, all dressed, as she had 
wished, as if for the opera. She clapped her hands in 
childish glee, as her dear "II Trovatore" floated upon 
the air. 

Suddenly a carriage stopped at the very entrance of 
the narrow street that lay between the apartment 
house and the Hospital. A lady, beautifully gowned, 
still young and of queenly bearing, stepped out, held 
up her jewelled hand and, with a nod of recognition, 
began to sing to her stage lover. It was Madame 
Aviglia, the great prima donna. 

" Ah, I have sighed to rest me — " 

Astrid listened with bated breath, clasping her hands 
in an ecstasy of deUght. 

" They sing so beautifully," she cried. " She has 
almost as beautiful a voice as my mother — but not 
quite. I want her up here. Please call her." 

The nurse beckoned over the railing, then drew back. 

Dr. L , the great physician, at the head of the 

Hospital,was shaking hands with the lady, and Astrid's 
papa was waving a farewell to her from his place on 
the roof. She smiled, looked up at the children, threw 
a kiss and was gone. 

A week passed. What may not happen in a week! 
They cabled for Astrid's mother. The second opera- 
tion was not a success. Even if the little limb were 
amputated there was no hope for Ufe. The great 
doctors who had seen the wonderful vigor of both 
parents shook their heads, yet no longer wondered 
that this frail, gifted little potentiality held on to life 
so tenaciously. 

[67] 



i£tu&es of %itc 



It was Sunday morning and Children's Day in the 
churches. Astrid heard the glad bells, and they told 
her that a beautiful lady had sent her some flowers, 
several of which she held close to her breast for a long 
time. Her father came to see her in the morning, 
bringing a cablegram, " a sweet message " he called it, 
from the dear absent mamma. The nurse pinned it 
to the counterpane, so that the child might often be 
reminded of it. 

" Will mamma come soon? " the little one asked, as 
she fixed her great blue eyes on her father and the 
niurse. 

" Very soon," they answered cheerfully. She plied 
the same question to the great doctor when he came, 
and often and often, as other members of the Hospital 
staff passed her bed, she answered, " Very well, thank 
you, my mamma is coming from Europe soon." 

They allowed her father to remain a long time that 
day at the Hospital. He sat very quietly by her side, 
and when she dozed off to sleep, her hand lay tightly 
clasped in his. Four o'clock in the afternoon came. 
There was a slight stir in the ward. Several people 
entered. Among them was a beautiful lady who 
smiled back at the head nurse and the doctors with 
genuine womanly interest and pleasure. Madame 
Aviglia had consented to sing for the children. 

" Where shall I stand, doctor?" she asked of the 
great physician, the friend of her youth. 

" Right here at the end," he replied, " close to little 
Astrid's bed." 

Astrid was at the end of the long line, and there was 
a wide screen beside the little white bed. Madame 
Aviglia shuddered. " She is Herr Schaul's child, is 
she not ? " she asked. The physician nodded gravely. 

[68] 



HstrtD 

Many of the children who were able were l3ring 
propped up in bed so that they could see the great 
prima donna. Astrid alone lay with her eyes closed, 
her little hand in that of her nurse. 

First Madame AvigUa sang some children's songs: 
" My Bed is My Boat," " Wynken, Blinken and Nod," 
and " The Gingerbread Man," that made the children 
cry out with deUght. 

" Would you sing * The Songs My Mother Sang * ? " 
asked the physician, as he bent toward her. 

She snuled assent, as she placed her hand on his 
arm, for they were very old friends. 

As she sang, Astrid's eyes, large and full and eager, 
with new and unwonted light, were turned full upon 
her. The child half rose in bed, and the kind nurse 
propped her up among the pillows. Two great tears 
coiwsed down the Uttle one's face. When the last 
notes of the song had died away, Madame Aviglia was 
stooping over the bed. " Astrid," she said, as she 
kissed the white forehead, " what other songs do you 
love?" 

" If you were mamma you would sing my song,'* 
said the child. She himimed over that old, old lullaby 
by Kucken, only the words were in the Norwegian. 
Madame AvigUa sat down by the bed and, taking the 
little hand in hers, sang it over and over to the child's 
deUght and satisfaction. 

" Now I would Uke * Hear Ye, Israel,' " said Astrid, 
after the kind nurse had given her her medicine. 

The head physician had been called out a moment. 
On his return he came close to Astrid's side and 
whispered to the singer, " Just one more, she is very 
tired." 

" We are going to sing * Hear Ye, Israel,' " said 

[69] 



Btut)es of Xife 



Astrid. " Then," with a smile toward the singer, 
" you will go home to your little girl, I guess." 

A great wave of feeling passed over the face of Ma- 
dame Aviglia. 

" If God gave me a little girl like you, Astrid," she 
said close to the child's ear, " I think I would be the 
happiest woman in all the world." 

" Then you shall be my mamma while mine is 
away," said Astrid, as she kissed the jewelled hand 
beside her. 

Throughout all the wards and far out into the street 
that beautiful voice travelled, but Astrid's quavering 
little notes in unison were heard only by those who 
stood at her bedside. 

" Israel! Israel!" Had the Father of all Mercies 
forgotten that the mother bird was hurrying across the 
ocean to her nestling? 

The prima donna kissed the child's forehead. 

"Good-bye, Astrid, good-bye, we shall meet again.'* 

She suddenly took the arm of her friend, the physi- 
cian. She had never been close to the passing of 
a child into the Infinite, and her soul shrank back. 
Astrid smiled from her white pillow. She was very 
happy. 

In the physician's office, the two old friends paused. 

" Is there no hope, Frederick ? " she asked. 

" None at all, Marie," he answered gravely. " We 
are making it easy for her. He knows it — the father. 
They let it go too long — it is tuberculosis of the bone. 
You see they had reverses here at first. She, the mother, 
didn't seem to make it a success, but both — " 

" Are very gifted," Mme. Aviglia interposed, " and 
I will see the management at the Opera. They must 
have more salary." 

[70] 



HstrfC) 

" You are very good, Marie, always generous and 
thoughtful of others, always — " 

The woman turned toward her friend, and her breath 
came quickly. 

" Don't say that, Frederick," she cried, impetuously, 
" don't, don't ! I can^t bear it now. I chose art and 
you chose medicine ; we have both realized our youth- 
ful ambition. Wo are celebrated, but oh, how small 
and dwarfed and pitiable has been the life within. We 
have been alone, Frederick, alone, alone! " 

The face of the great physician grew eager. 

" Marie," he cried, " is it too late? " 

There was a knock at the door. A young doctor 
entered. 

" Little Astrid has gone," he said. " It was very 
quick, as we all expected. We had no time to 
send for her father. She passed away as you saw her, 
smiling." 

" I will go to her father," said the doctor. " No, 
Marie, you are a woman — you can do better." 

When Madame Aviglia entered the apartment house 
across the street, it was quite dark and there was no 
sound save the distant tones of a piano. She followed 
the sound and knocked at the door. 

Astrid' s father came quickly. 

" Madame Aviglia," he cried, " I thought it was the 
doctor, I — " 

" Comrade," she said, as she took the hands of the 
man in her strong, warm grasp, " to-day has been the 
happiest day of my life. I have seen and known 
Astrid. Her sweet spirit will go with me wherever I 
go throughout life, to make me better, purer, nobler. 
The God-light had almost faded within me, and I saw 
only the husk of things. I was farther from God than 

[71] 



3etu&es of Xtfe 



when I set out on my journey. I had gained Knowl- 
edge. You have had Love and Knowledge. Without 
Love there is no perfect Life. Oh, my rich friend, she 
— the little star of your life — is not dead. Her 
spirit will abide forever. Her life will be the closest 
Imk you have with the Infinite." 



Astrid*s funeral was held in a vine-covered chapel in 
a beautiful New England burying ground. Madame 
Aviglia chose the spot. It was close to her own dear 
mother and father. She knew that her friends could 
visit it during the year when they needed to get away 
from the worry and hard work of the operatic season. 

There was only a little organ in the chapel, but the 
village organist was thoroughly musical, and when 
Madame Aviglia sang, " Hear Ye, Israel," after her old 
pastor had told the story of the last days of the child's 
life, the country people listened attentively, and many 
wept, but the child's mother was strangely calm. She 
had arrived in time to prepare with her own hands the 
shroud of her little one. She seemed dazed and grief- 
spent. 

On that rare June day, there were four people who 
bowed their heads and thanked God, as the pastor 
clearly and distinctly ended his prayer, " A little child 
shall lead them ; though this little life has left them, let 
Thy Fatherhood comfort and sustain them." 

A young EngUshman, tanned and weather-beaten, 
with a sweet girl-bride at his side, and Astrid's physi- 
cian with Madame Aviglia, followed the little one to 
her flower-strewn resting place, and when all that was 
mortal had passed from their sight, they looked up to 
Heaven and pledged their faith anew. 

[72 J 



®ffp CHru nf % Instfteh 




CK €ry of tbe Uiidifted 

|HE vast canopy of Heaven overhead 
and myriad beacon lights in the si- 
lence of the night; humanity, great 
suffering humanity, below on God's 
footstool — that great round Earth 
that, waking or sleeping, moves in its 
unbroken orbit, never questioning 
why; in the distance the faint sound of music in a 
quaint minor mode, simple, peaceful, measureless; 
all this and a figure standing alone on a bleak prom- 
ontory overlooking the restless, unsatisfied ocean. 
The man is bowed, bent, old before his time, but 
the love of Life has not been crushed out of him by 
the grinding wheels of Necessity: the untaught, the 
ungifted, the artisan, the human clod. 

Suddenly a line of light across the sky, quick as a 
meteor and as mysterious as the Aurora Borealis, 
sending its shaft straight to the feet of the lonely man 
on the cliff. With trembling limbs he sinks upon 
his knees, bows his head and waits for a sign. 

Another figure, veiled, elusive, noble of mien. God- 
like of stature, glides through the soft mellow light, 
half concealing, half revealing itself; pityingly di- 
vine and old with the weight of years, but wearing 
the insignia of perennial youth; grave and retro- 
spective, yet animated with the motive power of the 
life of our time, and full of the sweet optimism of the 
future. A figure almost unsexed in the possession of 

[75] 



Btut>es of Xife 



the loftiest attributes of both manhood and woman- 
hood, with a face in whose lineaments are stamped 
clear revelation and perpetual benediction. 

The artisan raises his head, but continues to kneel, 
as if waiting for some touch that shall connect his 
soul with the beautiful things of Life and the mystery 
of Immortality. The veiled figure stands silent and 
mysterious, full of nobility and abiding sympathy, 
waiting, almost agonizingly, to awaken the soul of 
the suppliant, with a touch of heavenly beauty that 
surpasses all human knowledge, and radiates to the 
onlooking stars of Heaven. 

The figure of the man quivers. Blindly, passion- 
ately, with tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks, 
he half rises and extends his hands to his deliverer. 
In his eyes there shines the light of unfettered longing 
for the beautiful things of Life, hitherto intangible and 
vague. The old Unes of grovelling jealousy, sullen 
despair and hopeless ignorance, begin to fade; and 
love, beauty and peace toward all men, change his 
features so that, in the Ught from above, he appears 
like unto his mysterious guest. 

He rises to his feet, utters a cry that echoes to the 
rock-bound shores of the land of his boyhood, where 
other souls like his toil on and see not the light in the 
sky, nor know that lying within them is the Divine 
Spark that can glorify their marred and warped exist- 
ence. Suddenly they look up and see Eternal Beauty 
above and around them; all the old marks of waste 
and failure and evil depart, and there is a new song 
in their souls. 

In the years to come they will see the veiled figure 
descending from Heaven, sometimes as they gaze 
upon a beautiful work of art, sometimes after listening 

[76] 



Ube Cr^ of tbe 'Cln0ifte& 



to a beautiful symphony, and again as they strive to 
beautify God's waste places, for the veiled figure moves 
forever, and is named Force, the evidence of the First 
Cause of all Creation, the Creator. 

Whether man wills or not, the Divine Spark is 
within him, however far he may have fallen ; and when 
it is kindled, he learns not only the beauty of holiness, 
but the holiness of beauty. 



I77l 



Cfte Old *€dli$r$ Prayer 

Jittittt?, — 
©lyat Ji0^js «at Ij^Ip satm sstni tn bettor Ito. 
MtdkB xm vi^Bput mg mateml 00 ntturlf tl|at 31 

slyaU tuit Bl|trk. 
?l|^lp ttt0 to b0 I|fltt^JSt tfltwari Art a«Ii iai^ai to 

tl|^ brat ut Stfe. 
Qlf arly m? to bp pore aa tl|e ^JtpM rljtlbreo mtiow 

3f Uai. 
O^tw we tl|e tooe-rolor tl|at ia bot a nfUttmn 
of tlje totter Itgtjt of perfert peare totttj 
(Bah nnh ilao. 
iCet ttte I|oli to SJieala, for tl|ere ta a« enormooa 
expeolittore of ettergg to ti|e poraott of tlje 
MttreaL 
Knp ttte from rarittg more for Art tljao for 
Ijumatt tteelia — more for tlje Perfertei Bom 
ttjatt for tl|e llttbent ©mtg. 
(Bnitit ttte to mg mork tl|at 31 mag ha ttye beat tlyat 
3( ran to tlje fare of abaolute Srutlj; rnih ml|e«, 
SorlJ. mg mork ta hone, grant me bnt a moiieat 
rompetenre, — enongli to make tlje ^jatli a little 
easier aa tl|e ICiglit groma litm atti tlje l|anJja 
berome too feeble to gnilie tlje ^taff. ©tjen 
take me ^ome. for i aliall be ttreb — oerg 
tireJi after tl|e long toomeg. 




Cbe Old 'Celli$r$ Prayer 

]HEY came trooping in with their vio- 
lins, just as I stood blowing the 
snow off my coat collar, for it was a 
blustering night, quite equal to any 
in the whole of Kriss Kringle's his- 
tory. As I sat down, prepared to 
toast my aching feet before the 
drift-wood fire (for my friends had never laid by 
their old traditions and the questionable luxury of a 
fireplace) , Adolph tumbled over his vioUn case, and 
loud wails immediately issued from the mouth of 
a totally unharmed but frightened little boy who, 
being plump, usually fell hard. Her^ven bless him! 
His tears were dried in a moment, and all went well 
until we were called to tea, a totally unnecessary 
function after a glorious Christmas dinner. How fast 
our tongues flew! But, alas, no one did justice to 
the feast. Poor little Preston's eyes almost bulged 
out of his head, he was so anxious to eat the choco- 
late cake ; but nature rebelled, as it fortunately does 
when a full stomach absolutely refuses to do more 
work. I saw Robert stowing away some cheese 
straws and fudge in his pockets, but when he saw me 
looking, he grew apprehensive least I might betray 
his secret. How could I betray even the sUghtest 
weakness of " my boys " at Christmas time ? There 
were, indeed, very few more secrets to be revealed, 
for all the children had received their presents, and 

[8i] 



}Etu^es ot Xite 



the big tree stood stark and cold in the front hall. I 
should have kept it lighted until New Year's Eve, as 
my good friends do in Germany, for there one gives 
a whole week to the Christmas festivities. 

After tea we all stood round the table, joined 
hands and sang an old German song called the 
" Weinachtsmann," which I had taught the children. 
" When I'm a man I'm going to Germany and be 
a Prince," Blnox said in a loud voice, " I'm going to 
take lessons from Paganini, too!" This outburst 
caused such merriment that poor little Knox, the 
youngest of all except Adolph, our baby violinist, 
got under the table to hide his mortification. 

" Good evening and God bless you ! " cried a big 
hearty voice at the door, and there stood the Pro- 
fessor, his great coat collar turned up to his ears and 
his bushy gray eyebrows full of snow, which he 
was rapidly mopping off; as he laid aside his hat 
and coat, he turned to each lad with his wonderful 
smile and patted all the round heads with true 
affection. 

"The Professor! The Professor!" the children 
shouted, as their good friend deposited his 'cello care- 
fully in the comer. " And not a word for me, 
Kinder? " asked a motherly voice at the door, as the 
Professor's helpmate, fat and rosy, appeared. 

The boys crowded round her, for they loved the 
dear " Duchen," as the Professor always called her, 
as if she were still young and petite as in her youth. 
What warmth and cheer these good German friends 
brought with them! Such a treat! The Professor 
would play some solos, and " Duchen " would ac- 
company him ; then, if all went well, the boys would 
play some Wohlfahrt Trios, good Gebauer, and pos- 

[82] 



XTbe ®l& 'Cellist's ipraiger 



sibly Robert might be asked to try the beloved 
Haydn. 

Little Adolph began to droop early, and the tiny 
one-eighth violin had to take its place beside a tired 
little boy on the sofa, but Knox and Robert and 
Preston just kept on playing and winking their tired 
eyes like heroes till, at last, Sallie Lou, the maid, 
brought in pop-corn balls, fudge, some dainty cakes 
and real hot chocolate " with froth on it," as Knox 
expressed himself. 

When the Professor and his wife had sung " Heil 
dir im SiegerKranz," which is the same thing as 
our " America," the words of which the boys loudly 
declaimed, and the Haydn Trio had at last been 
played successfully, the boys, w^ith a good-night 
for all their friends, stalked off to bed in the big 
chamber in the north wing of the house where 
David, the best watch dog in the world, kept nightly 
guard. They had just left us a moment when I saw 
the Professor's wife go softly up stairs with the dear 
mother, — for the motherless as well as the mother 
loved to look upon the little faces in their white beds, 
and to hear the last whispered prayers. 

" Have you ever thought," asked the Professor, 
as he puffed away at his pipe, " that children are the 
real links between us and Heaven ? God means that 
all * grown-ups ' should serve youth in some capac- 
ity. I never recall having told a child a falsehood. 
I can't. The little one is so fresh from the heart of 
God." 

This was much to say — very much for him. The 
Professor was a reserved man. He had never had a 
little boy of his own, but hundreds of " boys," young 
and old, had known and loved him, yes, had learned 

[83] 



Btu&es of Xffe 



some of Life's noblest lessons at his side, for the 
Professor taught his pupils how to live as well as 
how to play. 

" We teachers do not merely play instruments of 
wood," the good man continued, as he sat knocking 
the ashes out of his pipe. " We play into human 
lives when we stand before the public, for every 
stage is Life's stage, and we touch every chord of the 
human heart, as we speak the message, great or small, 
that God has entrusted to a boworahiunanvoice." 

I caught his thought. Like him I had grown old 
and gray in the service of Art, but with it my neigh- 
bor's children had grown as dear as the flowers of 
Spring to me, yea, more precious than the jewels of a 
Queen's diadem, and in their love my heart still beat 
the rhythmic beat of youth. Some of them did not 
know, could not fathom, the depth of my love, but 
God gave them to me for Art just as He gave them to 
their mothers for nurture. And how proud we were 
to share the honor and the blessing ! 

" Who says he is too great to teach a little child ? " 
exclaimed the Professor, after a long silence. " Who 
dares to belittle himself by confessing that he sees no 
glory in the simple faith of open-hearted youth ? " 

He rose to his full height of over six feet, and 
straightened back his huge shoulders, while his fine 
grey eyes, gleaming like sentinels in that massive 
head, burned into my very soul the message — one of 
those flash-lights of true art-aflinity, that come to 
us, thank God, as if to prop up our human frailties. 

" Lord," he cried with upraised hand, " let me 
never teach a note that is not Divine, that does not 
help some soul to better live. Make me respect my 
material so much that I shall not shrink. Help me 

[84] 



Ube ©It) 'Cellist's prater 



to be honest toward Art and loyal to the best in Life. 
Teach me to be pure as the happy children whom I 
lead. Give me the tone-color that is but a reflection 
of the inner light of perfect peace with God and Man. 
Let me hold to Ideals, for there is in this age an enor- 
mous expenditure of energy in the pursuit of the 
Unreal. Keep me from caring more for Art than for 
human needs — more for the Perfected Bow than for 
the Unbent Twig. Guide me in my work that I may 
do the best that I can in the face of absolute Truth; 
and when, Lord, my work is done, grant me but a 
modest competence, — enough to make the path a 
little easier, as the Light grows dim and the hands 
become too feeble to guide the Staff. Then take me 
Home, for I shall be tired — very tired after the long 
journey." 

" Amen," a sleepy httle voice answered from the 
sofa. We had all forgotten little Adolph lying there 
fast asleep with his beloved violin. 

He sat up, rubbed his eyes and began to cry. 

" Hush, Liebchen," said the old Professor, as he 
took the little boy in his arms and walked out of the 
room, and up the broad stairs at whose top stood the 
dear mother, for she had come back for the last one 
of her little band of sleepers. 

" He has said his prayer," said the Professor 
softly, as he put the little boy in his white cot. " We 
said one together." 

I wonder if that prayer went Home. I think it 
did, for was it not Christmas night ? 



[85] 




flw Bitf&ra attb ta ktttb, 
0OT xtapB ml^xt otljpra 00m, 



$oul Cecbttic 




LTHEA was a plain, unconventional 
woman, with a habit of contracting her 
eyebrows and twitching her mouth at 
the corners when she talked or played. 
She might have been an5rwhere be- 
tween thirty and forty, her vivacity 
and freshness were so misleading. 
Olivia, her friend, was older, — one of those women 
who grow more beautiful as middle life approaches. 

When the invitation came, though there were man- 
uscripts and manuscripts to look over, letters to write, 
pubHshers to interview, and no end of schemes of liveli- 
hood to be worked out, Althea turned loose from every- 
thing and journeyed to the " shack." 

What a sense of freedom she felt, as the familiar 
lines of the winding Saugatuck met her eyes ! Some 
might love the freedom of the woods. Althea loved 
water. Somehow its ebb and flow seemed a part of 
her restless life. 

Olivia never made " company " of her friends. Her 
home was a home-made one, neat, orderly, artistic, 
comfortable, simple and unconventional like its 
owners. 

" You are the most restful thing in the world," the 
younger woman said, when they met at the station. 
Olivia smiled, and her smile was pure content. 
The violin, safely packed away in its worn case, the 



[89] 



Btu5es of Xife 



dress suit case with its few clothes and stray manu- 
scripts that would not stay at home — her " treasures," 
as she called them, were at once seized by a loving 
hand and, in the twinkling of an eye, Old Jerry was 
trotting down the street at a pace so unusual that he 
looked at a passing street car with cool disdain. Had 
he not trotting blood in his veins ? 

June, beautiful June, on the Saugatuck! The city 
woman inhaled long deep breaths of pure air, and 
laughed a low gurgling laugh that contained the very 
essence of perfect happiness. 

It was not until the evening lamps were lighted and 
the two were sitting in a deep corner of the wide ve- 
randa that Olivia really began to talk, and she was the 
most wonderful talker in the world to the woman 
beside her. They spoke of the old professional 
life. 

" You are sure you don't long for it again ? " queried 
Althea. 

The swish, swish of the Saugatuck was the only 
sound heard for a few minutes. Then Olivia spoke in 
her warm, rich, well-modulated voice that men and 
women always loved. It was as mellow and as soft 
as a muted violin at times ; then it grew to a *cello 
tone, its throbbing intensity rousing one to a wild 
pitch of excitement, only to die away in a simple, plain- 
tive cadence that fitted the wonderful maternal .side of 
the woman. 

" You know, dear," she said, " when I married and 
gave up my art-life, I had but one thought — to make 
him happy, to be a good wife to him and to be loved, 
loved, LOVED as no other woman in the world had 
ever been loved. 



E90] 



Soul XTecbnic 



" We were very happy for a time, and then he grew 
restless. It almost tore my heart-strings to see it. I 
tried to absorb him still more, believing that my great 
love was a panacea for all ills, but he grew more and 
more restless. Publishers wrote to him and made 
offers ; he never answered. Literary friends called. He 
was moody and silent. 

" At length — I remember that night, it was a 
wild one on the Saugatuck, and I heard the fog horns 
on the Sound — I asked him what had come into his 
life that made him so unhappy. He looked at me, 
dear, and said, * Would you mind very much, little 
wife, if I asked you to go away for a few days? I wish 
to be alone.'" 

" 'Alone, alone ! * — I shall never forget those words. 
I seemed half-dazed, half -mad in my desire to hide 
my wounded spirit from his gaze, but I never 
reproached him. Something told me it would come 
out right. 

" I left him in the early morning, when the fog was 
still hanging close to the Saugatuck and the marshes 
were dank and dripping. I went home to my mother 
and, dear, God gave me work to do to fill the aching 
void and ease the pain. My mother became very ill 
and her life hung by a single thread for weeks. My 
husband's letters came often; they were filled with 
tender solicitude, but he never spoke of his literary 
work. 

" One day I received a telegram that he needed me. 
My mother had recovered. Oh ! I cannot tell you how 
my heart beat as I passed the old familiar places along 
the route. At Albany a stranger entered the car and 
sat down beside me. He was a little blond man with 



[91] 



lEtu^es of Xite 



blue eyes, kindly and eager. I remember just how 
he looked as he sat cutting the leaves of a new 
magazine. He turned to a poem. A delighted ex- 
clamation burst from his lips. I looked and, dear, the 
whole world seemed to be surging before me. My 
pulses reeled, my eyes swam with tears, my heart — 
my poor starved heart — almost burst. It was my 
husband's poem * Soul Technic ! * 

" The little man looked at me. * You love poetry,* 
he said, * read it ; it is a great poem. That man, 
whoever he is, like my countryman Bjomsen, must 
have had a wife who gave him peace to work.' " 

I, who had selfishly absorbed my husband's love, 
given him little time, opportunity, or inspiration for 
work in our early wedded Ufe, I — the woman — stood 
confronted by Myself. And how I hated the Past with 
all its mistakes and selfishness ! 

" In my absence he had found Himself and had 
then bent all his forces toward an art-ideal. The 
poem, perhaps outlined years before, had taken shape, 
becoming a living, breathing, hiunan thing in its per- 
fect relation to Life's needs. 

" As I read, it seemed as if all my selfishness and 
restlessness vanished. I was no more a mere woman. 
I became a complement of that other life to which 
I was wedded, yet into which I had as yet fitted 
so unworthily. Life seemed dearer, God seemed 
nearer. 

" The man at my side smiled, as I read. * A great 
poem,' he said again, * and the man who wrote it is no 
weakling. Life and Art are to him the greatest things 
in the world.' " 

" I closed the book. We were nearing New York. 



[92] 



Soul tlecbnic 



How could I meet my husband and not confess in my 
eyes and voice that I had not understood in the first 
sacred weeks of marriage? Should I go home or 
should I go quietly to a Uttle family hotel in the un- 
fashionable part of the city and think, think, think? 
I could not tell him how I, in my selfish love, had been 
jealous of that other rare and beautiful Ufe of his — his 
first affection. 

" * Olivia ! Olivia ! ' " 

" The train had stopped, and I was with the hurrying 
throng on the platform. My husband was beside me, 
dear, his great brown eyes peering into mine, his hand 
— but I must not tell you all. I smiled through tears, 
as I said, * I have just seen the poem, dear. A man 
showed it to me on the train. He said that you were 
like Bjornsen — your wife gave you peace to work — * 

" My voice broke. He looked at me, Althea, and 
understood. We have always understood since then." 



In the " rest comer " of a New York studio, Althea 
has placed a copy of "Soul Technic." Underneath is 
a little garden scene in front of the " shack." Olivia is 
picking flowers for her husband's study. He is not 
there. 

Will you pause and read ? 



[93] 



#0ul ®wl|ntr. 

Into the busy mart of Life I passed, 

My crude tools in my hand, — 
Artisan born and bred. 

With some God-light within, 
A mere dull clod without a germ of might. 
And there I met another man 
As arid, small and paltry as myself. 

Save that he had acquired some certain skill 
That men call Genius by the grace of God. 
And when we took each other by the hand, 

And felt the warm rich blood within our veins, 
And looked into each other's eyes for light, — 

Behold an instinct, towering o'er the wreck 
Of misspent years of Opportunity, 

Raised to a Soul the cringing, dwarfed Past, 
And broke the shackles with a single stroke. 

Silent, we paused with reverent attitude. 

Waiting for God's own stamp upon the brow, — 
Then Love passed by and looked into our souls. 

That scarred and thirsty shrank before her gaze. 
No words she spoke, nor heard we a command, 

But swift the God-man entered in. 
While down our sunken, callous cheeks 

Great scalding tears fell thick and fast. 
And all the mighty muscles in our arms 

Stood out like whipcords, as we staggered forth 
To do with tools, with heart, with brain, with soul. 

The work that in God's Vineyard lay undone ; 
Then Love — the Woman LOVE — passed from our 
sight. 

Leaving a sign above a lintel old. 
We read, and reading pondered o'er the words, — 

Then homeward went, each to his open door. 

[94i 



Soul Uecbnic 



Love honors and obeys, 

Love sufifers and is kind, 

Love reaps where others sow, 

Love leads the patient blind. 
To suffer, bleed and die. 

For chUd and home and hearth, 
This is what Love hath done 

While making Heaven of Earth. 
Oh Man, when from thy side 

Gone is her ministry. 
Though thou hadst peace to do thy tasks 

Through all Eternity, 
And though the world thy name 

Cried to the stars above, — 
There is no gift of God so great 

As Woman's perfect Love. 



[9Sl 




JIuf Oliederseben 



HE good ship Pennsylvania steamed 
out of the harbor of Hamburg. 
There were many good-byes, good 
wishes expressed in tearful language, 
long salutations from dock to steamer 
and back again, and a company of 
strangers began, as is the custom of 
travellers, to become acquainted with each other. 
It was an easy matter, especially with the pleasure- 
loving Americans, for some had common friends in 
the home-land and others had student affiliations 
abroad. Thus do some of the most vital and help- 
ful associations of life spring up, grow and thrive. 
It is hard to think that later friendships are not 
enduring. Lowell said, " After wrinkles come, few 
plant, but water dead ones with vain tears," and yet, 
as we develop, we need the help of others who have 
climbed still higher. May not the new links be the 
strongest ? 

There were two that August day who sat apart, 
looking off toward the shifting landscape of the 
Blankenese, dreamily, sadly, yet with souls attuned 
to the beauty that, colored by foreign residence, 
grows upon one unawares, leaving a vague re- 
gret, when again one returns to the white frame 
houses and cool green blinds of New England, for 
alas! we are more orderly, neat and thrifty than 
aesthetic, and the stone wall and purple rail have 

{99] 



Btu&cs of Xtfe 



not yet the traditions that make artists and poets 
of us. 

The two that sat thus were young musicians, one 
already a concert pianist who had begun her career 
auspiciously and legitimately, without bribe or bar- 
ter. She was city bred, gentle, well-poised, of un- 
usually vivacious temperament, modest as to her 
gifts, and full of the joy of Uving. The other was a 
strange creature, restless, moody, easily irritated and 
devoted to one ideal — her violin. Her childhood 
had been spent in a secluded valley; her earliest 
memories were linked with the delight of wood and 
field, of ponds fresh with lilies, and of gardens full of 
old fashioned flowers. She was intimate with every 
bird on the wing and every tree whose shade had com- 
forted her when, barefooted and worn and weary, she 
rested after her childhood rambles and wanderings in 
the fragrant fields and along the highways of her home 
village. 

She knew every inch of the meadows where grew 
her favorite orchids: she had learned the haunts of 
the ladies* slipper, her favorite Indian pipes, and 
the gentle wood violet. Nor did she derive pleasure 
alone from the beautiful world about her. There 
was an old, old man — almost ninety — they said, who 
was her playmate and friend. A veteran of the War 
of 1812 and of the Mexican War, a staunch old Whig, 
with a touch of aristocracy and breeding about him 
that gave to his shining black beaver peculiar dig- 
nity in the eyes of a child. 

Her best lessons were learned at his side, and 
when the winter came, he it was who drew her on 
her sled to the neighboring pond where, with a chair 
for support, he taught her to skate. 

[100] 



But XKIlie&erBeben 



It was not strange that reared as she was " in the 
open," she had not learned to concentrate Uke the 
city girl. Then, too, her little scattered community 
of hard-working, under-paid country people, who 
either toiled in the mills and factories in the neighbor- 
ing town, or wrung a scanty subsistence from the soil, 
had never seen with her eyes or longed with her soul 
for the higher culture that makes life richer, — the 
life with books and pictures and music. 

The city girl's childhood had been sheltered by 
love and nourished by kindness, but all the peace 
of the " open," with its ever-changing wonder of 
life, had never sunk deep into her heart. Like many 
others who have entered upon their journey of dis- 
covery and awakening abroad, both students had be- 
come restless and feverish with Ambition. A year 
passed. The city girl had already appeared as 
a virtuoso, and was anxious to renew her tri- 
umphs in America. The country girl was but 
half way up the hill, and just when her soul cried 
out for Knowledge, she found she must return to 
America. 

Neither one had learned the joy of Service. 
Neither cried out in a nightly prayer for strength to 
carry a message of beauty into the material world. 
Their young lives were just opening, and mysterious 
voices, with manifold potentiality, whetted by Am- 
bition, called them to a creative life. Though 
there were riches in their storehouse, they knew not 
how to use them. Because both were destined to 
live a life of devotion to Art, neither had developed 
the maternal instinct. It was but natural that the 
whole strength of their being should be absorbed in 
the passion for Knowledge. The passion for Service 

[lOl] 



Btut)es ot Xife 



could not be developed until sorrow, disappoint- 
ment, the weight of years and the deepening of 
their spiritual natures, made it possible. 

They longed for the intoxication of triumph in 
Art, the one equipped, the other only half-ready. 
Both had dreamed day and night of the 'splendor of 
Fame, when one could reach out the hand and 
touch the sky. And they knew no fear, because 
their hearts were clean, pure and honest. 

On the deck, side by side, these two sat, and no 
one disturbed them. They were both writing. One 
had a music pad, the other a note book. At last the 
pianist spoke. " We will try it over by and by," she 
said. " It is a cradle song from my Land of Dreams. 
It just came to me as we left Hamburg. And 
yours ? " 

The girl at her side rose. 

" We will go aft," she said, " and I will read it to 
you. I must look toward Berlin when I read. It is 
a poem about my life there. It seems so unfin- 
ished — that life, but something came into my mind, 
and I wrote it down. I am not sure that I, myself, 
imderstand it all." 

They went aft where they could see the spires of 
Hamburg fading in the distance, and there they sat 
a long time before either spoke. 

The poem was hardly a poem — crude at best — 
but it voiced Youth's longing, and it was spontane- 
ous — one of those little gems of thought that seem to 
spring unawares from the depths of the human soul, 
to be laid away and forgotten because the technic of 
expression is so crude. And yet it always rings true, 
and because it is genuine, it is a classic to that life 
from which it springs. 

[102 ] 



But Wiic^cvscbcn 



Years afterwards, when the girl who wrote it had 
found her place and learned the great lesson of Service, 
she took out the note book from an old-fashioned 
basket-trunk, on which were pasted many foreign 
labels, and read it, pondering deeply upon the strange 
fatality of human life ; for, in the midst of her beau- 
tiful art-life, with wonderful gifts and the promise of 
still greater renown, her friend had died, the victim 
of a strange accident upon that very ocean which 
had fostered their friendship and deepened their 
potentiality. She read and re-read the poem, with- 
out sadness or sighing, for Death to her has no ter- 
rors, being only the opening of a richer Life. 

Auf Wiedersehen, dear Land, toward Thee Pve 
looked 

Since childhood's years, with yearnings fond and 
vague, 
Believing that between us lay a vast 

Expanse of ocean, limitless and cold, 
Akin to those long years of steady toil 

There needs must be, ere from one's slender hoard 
One draws the coins, and with horizon wide. 

Peers into unknown, beauteous classic worlds. 
This year with Thee, my own, my treasure Land, 

Hath met the solemn yearning of my soul. 
I looked upon the skill of painters great, 

And oft, in galleries remote and calm, 
I rested, while my eyes sought out the form 

Of that Madonna that my nature craved ; 
Then back I hastened to my daily tasks, 

Stifling a wish to peer into the life 
About me, lest it might deter me from 

My self-imposed seclusion with etudes. 
[ 103 ] 



Bttt^es of Xitc 



Oh, rare and rich as Thou hast been to me, 

I wonder if perchance Thou goest too 
Into the dim and long-forgotten Past, 

Linked as Thou art with all the joy of Life, 
Ere Youth departs reluctant, with the head 

Bowed to the sterner tasks and stronger mould 
Of Womanhood, its features serious set, 

And all the vigor of its youthful frame 
Close-knit as with the sinews of restraint, 

Of patience and of hope and peace with God. 
I cannot think the Past doth not abide. 

Since I have known and loved that perfect art 
Of one to whom the classics are divine. 

You know of whom I speak in words that fail ; 
'Twas in the labyrinth of strange new truths 

Of bowing and of phrasing, grounded fast 
Within his satellites — those loyal men 

Who long with him had studied and communed, 
That I myself became a worshipper 

Of great Joachim's tone and wondrous skill ; 
Then, fever-mad, I played from morn till night. 

With but a ray — a glimpse of Truth the while 
My nature richer grew, and all my soul 

Cried out for deeper Knowledge and for power 
Outside of tricks of bow and Technic's skill. 

To-day Thou'rt passing from my life, dear Land, 
But something tells me that the vague pursuit 

Of Art amid thy loved environment. 
Hath fitted me for wider sympathy. 

For readier service to my kith and kin. 
For nobler living and for gentler deeds. 

So do I go without one vain regret 
For the bright coins I gave to Thee. 

I count them but the means that God hath blessed 

[ 104] 



Huf MieDerseben 



By trailing friendships in my labor's wake. 

Would that all people might this lesson learn : 
That what is in your soul must sing aloud ; 

It may not venture to the Hall of Fame, 
Its voice may never move the passing throng ; 

But what you add of culture to your Life, 
Will broaden it and make it bear rich fruit 

For Time and for that larger Cycle dim 
Toward which with reverent mein we daily move, 

With prayers upon our lips that we 
May one day stand among the chosen few 

That press about the shining form of Him 
Who made us one with Him by precious blood. 

Then shall we learn how He esteemed us, 

Yea, how He treasured us in His rich store. 



F105] 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 988 820 4 § 



